


oh, the demons march

by sup3rloki



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Bulimia, F/M, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multiple Personalities, Narcissism, bipolar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sup3rloki/pseuds/sup3rloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam Payne is conflicted.</p><p>And he's not sure if the bulimic angel across the hall likes him or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work of fiction, for a fandom that I've come familiar to. Please bare in mind English is not my first language and I have limited knowledge of the disorders and diseases mentioned in this story. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. Unfortunately, I do not own One Direction.

 

The Delamere wind combs through his dark hair, and suddenly, he is aware of everything. He hears the crunch of asphalt under his worn-out shoes, the whistle of air past his ear, and the silent tears his mother is shedding. His father settles a firm hand on his shoulder, affectionately (or, at least, it comes across as affectionately) shaking him.

“Well, son,” his father’s voice is gruff and tired, and he decides he was crying, too.

“We’ll visit whenever we can.” _Whenever we’re allowed_ wasn’t mentioned, and it really didn’t matter. He wouldn’t expect much from his parents, anyway. And he could already picture his parents at each other’s throats, their divorce impending while a psychologist asks him about things he’s already supposed to know.

And then he hears his mother’s hysterical cries, and he shuts his eyes for a moment. “I’ll be fine, mum. I’ll be back in no time.” And, really, who was he kidding? He might as well apply for permanent residency at this place. There really is _no cure_ for this _disease_ he has, and they might try all sorts of drugs and treatments and tests for him, but he refuses to be anyone’s experimental pincushion.

His father let’s go of him, and he really doesn’t want to be touched by his mother. He walks forward with his bag clutched tight in his hand, crosses the street (listens to the crunch of asphalt, his pounding heartbeat) and into the door. The building looks old—worn. But, really, it’s only supposed to ‘comfort’ incoming patients. Who are they trying to fool?

_Cowell Institute for the Mentally Unstable_

He’d been here already, two weeks ago to check out the facilities and the environment and shit. He would nod at whatever the guide says, agree with whatever his father comments, and would be thankful for every passing second that his mother decided not to come. She would’ve broken into tears five seconds in, and he couldn’t be bullshitted to carry a box of tissues around for her.

“Welcome, Mr. Payne.” Said the redheaded girl at the reception desk, in her sterile white uniform that he really wanted to puke on because it really was blindingly white. Actually, everything was blindingly white. The old-fashioned, stone-house façade of the place was so deceiving; you could’ve thought the inside was all country and western. No, you’re wrong.

“Please follow me,” grumbled a middle-aged man, carrying his bag for him. He shuffles forward, scruffs his shoe against the marble floor, and follows _Bob_ (as his nametag read) into a hall. “This is the Tudor Wing, where all teenagers within your age group stay. Room 317. Here you are,” _Bob_ pushes the door open, and then Liam decided to ponder whether his name really was _Bob_. Whether _Bob_ had a family or not, or if _Bob_ really wasn’t middle-aged and was just in his 20’s and just looks really old.

And then Liam is pushed into the room, the door slams, and he falls into the bed. “Well, fuck me sideways.” He mumbles to himself, closing his eyes. He thinks of things. Thinks whether if he killed himself now, would there be an afterlife? Would his parents care? Would anyone care? Would _Bob_ care? What if he’s reborn as an ant in his next life, and he dies within five seconds?

“Well, it depends if you‘re a really careless ant, then you _would_ die within five seconds.” Said a voice, and Liam decided it was his favorite sound in the world because it sounded really nice. And then he said: “God, is that you?” And then the voice laughed, and whatever he said a while ago, scratch that because he decided that that was his favorite sound in the world.

“No, I’m Niall. I’m across the hall.” 


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't 6000 words long.

Liam can’t really process what was going on.

The Freaks (something he started to call the staff around here; hypocritical, ha-ha) have given him time to settle in, but really, he can’t shake the feeling of being caged in. God—er, Niall—had decided not to talk to Liam anymore. Liam can’t blame him; if he were Niall he wouldn’t talk to himself, either. Liam wasn’t worth Niall’s godly time. He wasn’t worth anyone’s time.

The past week, Liam had had one of his episodes.

He was going mad, actually. No, you’re not, the voices said, and he had to agree. And then he started whispering: what if their divorce is finalized within the week? And then the voices would talk back: that’s none of your business, Liam. And then he would have to agree, because the voices are never wrong. But he would whisper again: could I just kill myself now? And the voices wouldn’t talk back for a long time, and he decided to bang his head against the corner of the wardrobe. Once.

He touched his forehead, and he smiled. He felt the warm blood seep through his fingertips, holding up his hand against the light. His fingers glistened under the light, and he laughed. Bitter and angry and hopeless and… psychotic. And Liam thought this was the path for him: the crooked path with wicked trees and cackling devils.

And he had somehow fallen asleep, and when he woke up, his thoughts were racing.

He was constantly pacing the room, running fingers through his hair; occasionally tugging at his brown locks. His mind was at a hundred miles a minute, thought after thought pouring in.

How the furniture was shackled to the floor, how the room was a hair away from being a prison, and how much of a liar the resident psychiatrist was. Was there an afterlife? If so, how would it look like? Would it look like how television depicts it to be? All fluffy white clouds and golden gates and angels playing harps? And then, he thought, well, shit, Liam, you can’t live on clouds. His Year 8 Science teacher told him that once you physically touch a cloud, it will literally burn you. Well, Mr. Martinez ruined a lot of dreams, anyway.

And then he felt pain.

The searing pain on his forehead, and then, Harry Potter, and how he never really got his acceptance letter. And he forgot about banging his head on the edge of the wardrobe. But, no matter how much he tries to ignore the pain, it just tugs on the scar more and demands to be felt.

And he just gets dizzy and falls backwards onto his bed, bouncing up a couple of times before darkness consumes him.

+

The next morning, he’s fine.

He touches his forehead, and instead of laughing maniacally, he winces at the feel of stitches. Was he really that stupid for getting his head all messed up? But then again, his head already was messed up. But he really can’t remember how he got that scar, and to what degree did he mess up his head that the doctors resorted to stitching it up.

He had just finished showering by then, deciding to waterproof-plaster his scar because he really needed to wash his hair. His hair was still wet as he sat on his bed, constantly running a hand through the damp locks to get them to dry quicker. And then there’s a knock on the door, and there’s a sliver of hope it’s Niall, but it’s one of The Freaks.

“Liam, there’s a meeting in the Activity Center.” Then Liam nods even though he doesn’t know where the Activity Center was. He decides to quiff up his hair, deciding to air-dry it with the limited air that circulates around the Institute. “Um, where’s the Activity Center?” He asks The Freak before he leaves, and he responds with: “First hall to the right, straight ahead.” And then he nods again because he really didn’t want to thank the redheaded Freak.

And then he realized most of The Freaks here are redheaded. Except for Bob.

?He slips on his Vans (his Chuck Taylors were confiscated because he could apparently strangle himself with the laces) and jogs out of the room, down the hall, to the right, and finds double doors with the words ‘ACTIVITY CENTER’ painted on each one. He pushes one open, and is met by the endless chatter of mentally unstable teenagers. They were all in a circle; some obviously shoulder to shoulder with their friends, some squirmy and uncomfortable in where they sat.

Liam didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know where to sit.

“Hey! Mr. Liam Payne of Room 317!”Beckoned a familiar voice. And his head snaps to where it originated. So… it was Niall. He was gesturing for Liam to come closer (or, at least, that’s what Liam thought it meant) and he shuffled on his feet before he was right in front of them. Them as in Niall and his friends.

“Harry, Lou, Zayn, this is Liam. Liam, these are Harry, Louis, and Zayn.” Then he gave a small, awkward wave before Niall pulled him down to sit next to him. Then, he applauded Niall for his great grammar, because he himself didn’t have good texting grammar. Liam tucked his legs beneath him, hunching forward as he listened to Harry, Louis, and Zayn engage in their own conversation. He looked towards Niall, and flinched backward when he saw the boy smiling brightly at him.

And then Liam realized Niall was Irish after a minute of processing his accent.

“So, what happened to you? Af’er our chat last week, you were just gone! Like poof!” And then Liam smiled. Because Liam was so anti-social that he’s practically hamster. And Liam was so stupid to not go out and he realized he’s not so much stupid as scared that Niall will learn about his episodes and think he’s more of a freak than he already thought he was.

Well, worst case scenario.

“I, um, had to like, settle in or… something.” He rubs his neck awkwardly, a habit he’s somehow had for a long time now. And he maintained his smile, although his tooth somehow hurt. But he watched Niall frown, and he felt his lips twitch down, too.

“Liam… were you avoiding me?”

Liam’s eyes widened.

“Oh, God, no!” And he was thankful he didn’t have a really loud voice, otherwise the whole room would look and stare at him, and think he’s weird. Well, everyone is, around here. And then Niall was his usual, chipper self again. And then Liam started to wonder what he was in here for, because he looked perfectly healthy, and happy.

Then Niall was about to talk, but someone cleared their throat loudly, and everyone seemed to shut up and straighten up, and Liam’s heart clenched when he looked down, saw Niall’s clothes somehow clinging and sagging off of him altogether, his pants barely held up even with the belt looped to its last hole, his hipbones scarily there.

Then, the resident psychiatrist started talking the basics: they expect respect for other patients, cooperation, and everyone will act for the benefit of each other. They will be always available for anyone, because they understand (and, really, they don’t. But Liam nodded along, anyway).

And everything else he’d expect: curfew at 11 (though he goes to bed at 7), lights off at 11:30 (though he falls asleep at 9), anything that could be used as a weapon would be confiscated (i.e. blades, shoelaces, and the like), and so and so.

“So, we have a new inmate today. Inmate No. 317, welcome to the Circle of Trust.”

And the boys and girls within the circle were varying in age, the youngest looking about 13, the eldest about 19 or 20. Some physically showed what they were in for, some, like Niall, looked perfectly happy and healthy. But Liam could see the ticking fear and anxiety behind their eyes, the shaking limbs. And, he thought, they’re all crazy here. And he smiled.

“Alright, everyone knows the drill: Name, age, what you’re in for. Aiden, love, why don’t you start?” Doctor Kirkpatrick smiled at the boy beside her, and the boy smiled back. He was pretty good-looking, quiff-y hair and all.

Did Liam ever mention he was gay? No? Well, he is.

And then he laughed to himself, a gay mad man, wonderful.

“I’m Aiden, seventeen, and I’m recovering from severe depression.” And after that, Liam noted all the other disorders his co-inmates had. They were all different, their insanity in varying degrees. Self-Mutilation. Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. Anorexia. Severe Panic Disorder. Severe Anxiety. And so and so. And Liam thought that even if he is crazy, he’s still one of the lucky ones.

Then it came to Niall’s friends, and started off with Zayn. “I’m Zayn, sixteen, and I have IED. It has something to do with anger issues. Bull—”

“I’m Louis, seventeen, and I have two faces. Well, no, I’m not sure how many I really do have.”

“And by that, he means he has Multiple Personality. I’m Harry, sixteen, and I’m in for Self-Mutilation.” And it seemed that Louis and Harry were really close, and Liam thought, I’m not alone. And then they looked at each other so lovingly, and Liam had to look away. He might squeal or something.

“I’m Niall, sixteen, and ya ‘know… bulimia.” And Niall smiled really wide, and almost everyone was smiling back. Because Niall had that power, and then Irish and Liam really didn’t think twice anymore. And then Doctor Kirkpatrick caught Liam’s eye, smiling softly. Go, she mouthed to him, and he took a loud gulp.

“I’m Liam, sixteen, and I guess—I mean, I know I’m bipolar.”

 

Niall Horan is tired.

It’s been a year or so since he’d been admitted in CIMU and there’s not much of a difference, really: he still sticks his finger down his throat, spills out his guts into the cold porcelain bowl, and goes on with his life. Happy, seemingly healthy. And, really, he was happy. Just not with his body.

With his looks.

With his anything.

It’s been three years since he started purging, been three years since he outed himself to his whole school. With all the weeks he was referred to as the ‘fat faggot’, he remembered standing in front of that mirror, poking himself around the stomach. He remembered asking himself, I’m not that fat, right? And an unknown voice would respond: of course you are, why else do you think they’re calling you so? Though, Niall’s pretty sure that was himself.

And then he discovered the beauty of purging.

It’s also been a year since he last talked to his parents or any of his relatives, or anyone from back home, for that matter. He decided he was unwanted back there, anyway, and if they remembered him at all, they would at least send some sort of cheesy postcard that says ‘wish you were here!’

The thought of his parents made him gag, and off he went to the bathroom.

+

“Ey, Nialler, you coming for lunch?”

Really, there wasn’t much cause in going to lunch, anyway. He wouldn’t eat and if he did, it’s all going down the drain anyway. But his friends were there, and he could really use a laugh. “Yeah, hang on,” he slipped on some TOMS that Louis leant him (practically gave him because he doesn’t really plan on giving them back) and hopped out the door, leaving a lingering glance on the door across the hall.

“Why don’t you invite the lad?” Teased Louis, and his head snapped back towards the Doncaster native. He was smirking, with that knowing look that Niall glares at. “I—why would I?” He retorted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The three lads scoff, almost simultaneously, then Harry speaks up.

“You obviously fan—”

“Oh, hey, Liam!”

Called Louis, not so much looking at Liam, but more at Niall. And there emerged the dark-haired lad from his room, a dark gray long-sleeve shirt on his torso, dark skinny jeans on his skinny legs, and scuffed up Vans on his feet. Niall had to look away. He might start gushing over how hot Li—

Whoa, okay.

“You wanna join us for lunch?” Niall heard Harry say, and he didn’t hear Liam’s response because his fingernails were suddenly the most interesting things in the world and Niall decided to gaze on them. But Liam probably said yes because he was suddenly beside Niall and walking down the hall, with Harry and Louis behind them, and Zayn leading the way.

And Liam was biting his lip, and Niall’s fingernails were suddenly so worthless.

“Do I have something on my face?” He heard Liam say, and he didn’t know who he was talk—oh. Oh. Because Niall was probably staring at Liam and Liam caught him, and seriously? Crushing on the new guy? Pfft (though Niall’s cheeks say otherwise).

“Um, no. I mean—yeah, no.” He grinned at Liam and he smiled back softly. And then they were turning the corner towards the Tudor lunch room. There was something squeezing his stomach, really tight, and suddenly he can’t breathe. But Liam’s got an arm around him and smiling down at him, and—really? Really.

So. Liam’s been here for a week, but everyone’s seemed to take a shine to him already—what with saying hi to every table they passed. No surprise there. Liam’s good-looking. And nice. But he did hear about what happened to Liam that other day… side effects of psycho-ness, probably.

And then Niall’s shoulder is cold, and apparently Liam’s dropped his arm.

“—and penguins. They’re nice.” He heard Liam say to Louis, and then he really wanted to know how that conversation went, because it apparently contains penguins. “The only other person in this wing with Multiple is Kyle over there—she’s afraid of sheep, apparently.” Louis points and waves to a girl of Asian descent (all almond eyes and straight black hair and full bangs) and the girl waves back. Oh, so that’s Kyle.

Then, Niall’s left at the table while the other four get their food, and a few minutes later, Liam’s back.

“Hey,” he said, sliding his tray onto the table and sitting beside Niall. And then it was surprising Liam didn’t ask if he was eating, because sometimes even Harry or Louis would ask if he’s not eating and then they’re like oh, right but Niall doesn’t mind. And then he knew Liam understood. And he smiled.

“Hey. Where are the others?” He asked, kicking his leg up and accidentally hitting Liam’s under the table. And he wasn’t sorry. So he won’t apologize. And Liam didn’t seem to mind, anyway. “Oh, Zayn went to the bathroom and Harry and Louis went to the vending machines.” He nodded and scanned the room for those awful two that. He saw them actually by the vending machines (which really was stupid for the institution to put there because vending machine kill 5,000 people annually), but not really buying anything, and they wiggled their fingers at Niall and winked. He threw them the finger.

“Are there, like, classes here?” He turned back to Liam, and raised his eyebrows. He must be one of those studious types. “Um, well, I don’t attend them, but yeah, but for like, Math, Science, and English Lit.” And then Liam’s forehead creased, and he was subtly pouting, and Niall thought that might be the most adorable face—

Snap out of it Horan.

“Well, that sucks. I thought they would be like, full scale curriculum or something.”

“Sorry to disappoint, all of us minus you don’t like school. Smartass.”

Then Liam stuck his tongue out at Niall and shoved him playfully, making him tip over but maintain his balance.

Well, Niall could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> So... that's that. It's raining here, and the atmosphere is very sad, so hot cocoa and a flickering candlelight leads up to this. This is just the prologue, and it's very short, but the next chapter is about 6000 words long, so, wait for that. That's all. Bye.


End file.
